


I Will Be Here

by Cobrilee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And waits for him to get it out of his system, Brief Stiles/OMC, But also takes care of him, Derek Lets Him, I really have no idea how to tag this, M/M, Mentions of Stiles/other OMCs, Sort of dark themes done in a not-dark way?, Stiles is trying to fuck the pain away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9161821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobrilee/pseuds/Cobrilee
Summary: Derek is never really sure why, when Stiles grabs his hand and yanks him toward his bedroom, saying, “Come on loser, get ready, we’re going out,” he doesn’t just put his foot down and say no. Why he doesn’t say, “I don’t enjoy watching you pick up your flavor of the night and fuck them in a gross bar bathroom, and I don’t want to do it again.” Why he doesn’t say, “I hate watching you do this to yourself and I don’t want to be a party to it anymore.”He knows why he does it, every time. He doesn’t know why he can’t ever say no.Although he supposes it’s really not a difficult thing to figure out. The answer to both is the same.Derek is always that little bit afraid if he doesn’t go, this one time-if he refuses to watch Stiles attempt to have his misery fucked out of him by random strangers, just this once-that it will be the time Stiles gets in over his head. That he’ll find out Stiles picked a werewolf (werecoyote, wereleopard, whatever he finds that night) who couldn’t be satisfied with a rough fuck in the bathroom and takes things too far, resulting in were-whatever Stiles, or worse yet (maybe), a dead Stiles.So he goes. Every damn time. And he knows he always will.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: The first part could be considered slightly graphic Stiles/OMC, so if the idea of Stiles with anyone else upsets you, please click the back button.

Derek is never really sure why, when Stiles grabs his hand and yanks him toward his bedroom, saying, “Come on loser, get ready, we’re going out,” he doesn’t just put his foot down and say no. Why he doesn’t say, “I don’t enjoy watching you pick up your flavor of the night and fuck them in a gross bar bathroom, and I don’t want to do it again.” Why he doesn’t say, “I hate watching you do this to yourself and I don’t want to be a party to it anymore.”

He knows why he does it, every time. He doesn’t know why he can’t ever say no.

Although he supposes it’s really not a difficult thing to figure out. The answer to both is the same.

Derek is always that little bit afraid if he doesn’t go, this one time-if he refuses to watch Stiles attempt to have his misery fucked out of him by random strangers, just this once-that it will be the time Stiles gets in over his head. That he’ll find out Stiles picked a werewolf (werecoyote, wereleopard, whatever he finds that night) who couldn’t be satisfied with a rough fuck in the bathroom and takes things too far, resulting in were-whatever Stiles, or worse yet (maybe), a dead Stiles.

So he goes. Every damn time. And he knows he always will.

“Come on loser, get ready, we’re going out,” Stiles says, and Derek swallows his resentment, throws on a pair of black jeans and a white henley, and trails off after Stiles’ bouncing, dancing, chattering ass.

It’s no surprise to him that within ten minutes of their arrival, Stiles is moving sinuously out on the dance floor, palm on his stomach and the tips of his fingers dipping below his waistband. It’s no surprise that there are least a half-dozen werecreatures eyeing him avariciously. It’s no surprise that one of them, a lithe coyote an inch shorter than Stiles with a boldness that surpasses even the human’s, is joining him. The coyote is blonde, with sharp green eyes-and yes, Derek has noticed that Stiles tends to favor green-eyed men, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t-and his hands are all over Stiles, and Derek has to turn away, feeling ill.

He senses when the two leave the floor, making their way to the bathroom, and Derek sighs, stands, and follows. They’re already grappling at each other when Derek slips into the bathroom himself, glaring at the two humans still standing at the urinals. They finish hurriedly, glancing from Derek to the occupied stall, and disappear within moments. Derek assumes his place at the bathroom door to keep people from entering until Stiles and his latest partner have finished with each other.

“Jesus fuck, your fingers,” Stiles groans, and Derek steels himself against the things he’s going to hear. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, and he readily admits how creepy it is that he’s present for this, but Stiles not-so-secretly enjoys the exhibitionism factor and Derek would never allow him to be alone with an unknown were. He hates it,  _ loathes _ it, but the potential alternative is beyond imagining, so he deals.

Stiles talks through it, as he does, and Derek tries to think of the laundry he has to do, the book he was reading this morning, the recipe he wanted to try for their next pack dinner. Inevitably, as it always does, there’s a pause, and then-

“You realize there’s some rando standing in the bathroom and listening to us fuck, right?” the coyote mutters, and Derek rolls his eyes and waits for Stiles’ response. Normally it’s something along the lines of calling Derek his bodyguard; there was one memorable incident where he had a fox believing Stiles was a European prince. Sometimes Stiles confides that Derek is his stalker, but he’s never tried to harm him, he just likes to listen to Stiles have sex.

Tonight, however. Tonight is different.

“He’s my best friend,” Stiles pants, and Derek can hear him squirming backward, presumably trying to entice the guy to resume his thrusting. “He wants to fuck me, but he’s too much of a fucking coward to tell me. This is the closest he thinks he can get.”

No, that’s not entirely accurate. Derek knows he could get much closer. He chooses not to.

“Your friend is fucked up,” the coyote remarks, but his hips start moving again, and Derek can hear the sound of skin slapping against skin, and he swallows hard against the bile that climbs into his throat.

“You have no fucking clue,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek bites back a response that invokes the adage of  _ birds of a feather _ , and all that.

It’s only a minute or two later when his cries begin, and Derek tenses for just a split second until he recognizes the sounds that precede Stiles’ orgasm. There’s always that brief moment when he wonders if the Were of the Night is going to press their advantage, which is why he suffers through these bathroom trysts. 

He tries to block his senses, but there’s no mistaking the sharp, tangy scent of Stiles’ release, mixed with the coyote’s as they both come. Interestingly enough, Stiles is always quiet at that moment; Derek privately thinks it’s because he’s trying to mentally go someplace other than where he is, but he’s never voiced his suspicions to Stiles. Stiles likes to pretend that he’s fine, that this driving need to pick up whatever were he can find and submit to them in the basest of ways, is just a sexual appetite preference and not a way to punish himself for the sins of his past.

Derek remains stoic as the stall door opens and the two exit, Stiles still tucking himself into his jeans. The coyote is eyeing him as if he’s a weird, unfathomable creature; Derek doesn’t spare him a glance.

“You’re wrong, you know.” 

Stiles glances up, surprised, and Derek’s voice is flat when he continues, “I don’t want to fuck you.”

Stiles is about to scoff, Derek can tell, but the coyote cocks his head consideringly and just stares at Derek for a moment. “He’s not lying,” he tells Stiles finally, and Derek moves to the side so the coyote can disappear back into the overcrowded club.

Stiles is the one staring now, and Derek knows he’s shocked that he was wrong. “Are you ready to go?” Derek asks, voice impassive, and Stiles slumps, and nods.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. They leave the bathroom, winding their way through the club and back to the front, stepping out into the temperate dark of midnight in Beacon Hills in May. 

The drive home is silent-well, wordless. Stiles’ constant fidgeting is never silent. Derek listens to the rasp of fabric against skin, Stiles pulling at the seat belt from where it’s pressed into his throat, the thunk of Stiles’ head against the window, and feels settled.

“How was I so wrong?” he whispers, finally, and the last remaining bit of tension seeps from Derek’s shoulders as the question he’s been waiting twenty minutes for has finally been given voice. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Yes, you do. But I don’t want to fuck you,” Derek reiterates, calmly. “I don’t want to be a part of whatever this is.”

Stiles’s brow wrinkles. "Whatever this is?” he echoes. “What is ‘this’?”

Derek shrugs, even though he knows. “Whatever it is that’s sending you into men’s rooms with weres you’ve never met. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

“And yet you come in and listen every fucking time,” Stiles shoots back at him, words like poison-tipped arrows. “You  _ listen _ as I bend over for every were dick in the county, you listen to me cry out while they’re fucking me, you listen to me when I come,  _ every time _ . There has to be a reason.”   


Derek’s eyes flare red and he takes a sharp, steadying breath. “I’m there to protect you,” he says finally. “Because one of these days, whichever creature you’ve picked up is going to try to take more than just your ass.”

Stiles snorts indelicately. “You made a joke, Derek, I’m proud.”

Pulling the car into the designated parking spot, Derek turns off the ignition and whirls to face Stiles, glaring. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Stiles. Not to me.” Stiles’ eyes go wide and Derek curses. “I don’t want to  _ just  _ fuck you,” he sighs, giving in with ill grace. “I don’t want to be one of the weres you use to fuck the misery out of your soul. I want to be the one you come home to when you realize you don’t need to try to fuck it away.” 

Stiles is watching him, eyes steady, curious, unblinking. “You love me.”

“Always will,” he responds instantly. “Which is why I can’t be something you punish yourself with. I can’t be a one night stand, or a fuck buddy.”

Swallowing tightly, Stiles nods. “I get it,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t be a part of you punishing yourself, either, so I get it,” and his honesty surprises Derek. The fact that he knows what he’s doing, is willing to admit it… Derek has hope, for the first time in a long time. “But I’m not ready to be healthy and happy just yet, y’know?”

“I know.” The words are soft, understanding. “I’ll be here for you when you are.”

\-----

It takes time. Derek continues to be Stiles’ guardian over the following months, but gradually the need for that tapers down. Stiles stops trolling for were dick and withdraws from everyone for a little while. It makes Derek anxious, but whenever he sees Stiles, he looks good. He starts to smile easier, to crack jokes that aren’t self-deprecating or open old wounds. The best way Derek can think of to describe it is that Stiles isn’t quite so…  _ heavy _ , anymore. Not quite so world-weary.

They circle in and out of each other’s lives. Derek is always there when Stiles needs him, and gives him his space when he doesn’t. He even dates now and then, though never for very long, and everyone he knows calls him out for barely making an effort. He doesn’t tell them that he knows Stiles wouldn’t respect him if he didn’t at least try, would be angry with him for giving up his life to wait for Stiles, so he  _ does _ make an effort, small though it may be.

It doesn’t even hurt that terribly when Stiles turns up with a new boyfriend. Okay, it does, but Derek knows they’re still waiting to slot into that place where they’re right for each other, at the right time, at the  _ same _ time. So when Stiles introduces Quentin, a physics major from UC-Davis, Derek manages to shake his hand with some semblance of a smile on his face and a growl trapped in his throat.

Quentin is as smart as he would have to be to be a physics major, and apparently just as observant, and the next time Stiles shows up to the loft, he flops down on Derek’s couch and announces that Quentin has broken up with him. “Why?” Derek asks, and Stiles shrugs, a rueful smirk twisting his mouth.

“Because he’s not stupid,” Stiles says, and Derek still doesn’t get it. “He said it took him about five minutes to realize he would never be more than you, not in my eyes,” he confesses, and Derek watches him implacably, though the uptick in the tempo of his heart belies his stoicism. “He’s not wrong.”

“What do you want now?” he asks, voice whisper-soft, and Stiles looks away. Inhaling deeply, Derek nods, bolstering himself. “Okay.”

“Der,” Stiles objects, turning back to him with a pained expression, and Derek halts whatever he was about to say with a single look. Stiles chews on his lip before sighing. “I can’t fuck this up, okay? You’re endgame. I have to be ready for that. If I’m not, we both lose.” His voice is pleading, and Derek understands. He hates it, but he understands. 

\-----

It takes another seven months. But none of the time that’s passed matters even a little the day Derek opens his door to a grinning Stiles. “I got the job,” he says, and Derek’s heart falls. 

“The one in Denver?”

Stiles is nodding before the word even fully leaves Derek’s mouth.  “I start in two weeks.” He sweeps in past Derek, seeming not to notice that Derek is holding himself stiffly, his face set in stone. “I’ve already started packing, I fly out tomorrow to find an apartment, they’re emailing me all the paperwork I have to fill out and bring in with me… It’s happening, Der. It’s really happening.” He pivots, finally taking in Derek’s stance, and wariness washes over his face instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek lies, and Stiles narrows his eyes. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” he retorts bluntly. “You’re mad.”

“You’re leaving.” It’s the only thing he can say, and he can hear how helpless and heartbroken the words are. “You’re leaving, and you might not be back.”

He sees the second realization dawns. “Derek.” Stiles’ arms are around him in a blink, and Derek sinks into the embrace. “I have two tickets for tomorrow’s flight. I want you to look at apartments with me.”

Not for the first time in his life, Derek is quiet when there’s so much he wants to say. He wants to be angry at Stiles’ presumptuousness. He wants to be relieved that he’s not being left behind. He wants to know if Stiles is playing a game.

“I’m ready, Der.” Stiles pulls back, cupping Derek’s jaw in long fingers, palms cradling him delicately. “I’m ready for the good stuff, the happy stuff. I’m ready for life to stop kicking me in the balls, and I’m ready to accept that I can have you without fucking it up. I’m ready for all of it.”

“You didn’t ask if I’m busy tomorrow,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles laughs, sliding back into him.

“If you’re busy tomorrow, I’ll change the date on the tickets. If you’re busy next week, I’ll pick the apartment and you can bitch about it later. If you’re busy for a month or two, I’ll understand, and I’ll mail you a key when you’re ready for it. When you’re not busy anymore, you can come home. I’ll be ready, and I’ll be waiting.”

Derek is almost afraid to believe. “You mean it?”

Stiles takes a quick, shaky breath. “You told me once, a long time ago, that you love me. Or, well, I told you you love me and you agreed. Do you still?”

“Always,” he responds without hesitation, and Stiles closes his eyes, nods once, and smiles. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes, moving back within the tight circle of Derek’s arms, just enough to be able to look up at his face. “I’ve loved you for five years, Derek. I loved you every time you stood outside of one of those godforsaken stalls and waited for me, ready to protect me if I needed it. I loved you every time you looked at me, asking with your eyes if I was ready, and not making me feel like shit when I turned away because I wasn’t. I’ve loved you through everything that’s happened to us, and I will love you through everything yet to come.” 

His speech overwhelms Derek, who has to stop for a second and simply absorb it. Stiles waits, his scent not betraying any hint of nerves, and Derek loves him all the more for his steadfast belief in Derek’s ability to cope.

The moment of silence stretches, comfortably, until Derek can breathe steadily again. “What time does our flight leave?”

The grin that splits Stiles’ face makes it shine like the sun, his amber eyes glowing as he squeezes Derek tightly. “We fly out at about quarter after two.”

“So I have roughly twenty-four hours before my life completely changes?” Derek asks wryly, and Stiles laughs.

“Baby, your life completely changed the day you met me,” he teases, and Derek knows, without a doubt, that it’s the truest thing Stiles has ever said.


End file.
